


The Vampyre Eugene

by FancyLadySnackCakes



Category: Original Work
Genre: Dry Humping, Exhibitionism, F/M, Female Ejaculation, Monster Boyfriend, Oral Sex, Romance, Smut, Teratophilia, Virginity, and lubricant oils..., historical setting, lots of smut, there's a candle..., thigh fucking, vampire boyfriend
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-16
Updated: 2017-08-16
Packaged: 2018-12-16 05:25:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11822127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FancyLadySnackCakes/pseuds/FancyLadySnackCakes
Summary: Anon asked: Gotta admit that Eugene is my favorite thoooo. That tongue the thicc diccc. I'm so fucking weak for monster boyfriendsA/N: I think at this point I'm just looking for reasons to write original fiction. I got inspired, what can I say. This is different than the usual tone I write in. My first historical based bit of writing with heaps of romance but nothing flowery or (hopefully) nothing cliche. It does involve a tall, vampyre-boy so... big, monster dicks for the win, right?! Hope you enjoy! (nsfw drawing of eugene here --> http://brimbrimbrimbrim.tumblr.com/post/163570951058/nsfw-highres-version-of-bat-boyfriend-eugene)See tags for warnings.





	The Vampyre Eugene

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Anonymous](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anonymous/gifts).



It began as one of your Nan’s bedtime stories. Those grim tales not meant to soothe a child, but to frighten them, force them under covers where the night things couldn't reach. They, the stories, became a part of you as much as the slaughtered mutton did your bones and sinew. 

Sometimes, when you were still nothing but a bony youth, you’d awaken in a field, circled by a creature of the night, always remembering the glow of red eyes and the smell of fresh soil. But Nan had grown up in another time, another world it seemed. As she told her tales - some not for a child but told regardless - never did you believe them, except perhaps once or twice, and always on the cusp of some cerebral nightmare, awoken in a sweat and panic, feeling eyes gleaming from your bedroom window. 

As you grew older, taller and fuller, so did your desires.

After your elder sister left to begin a family of her own, the dreams from your childhood returned, only this time, these dreams were filled with fantastical conversations with the one creature your Nan called… vampyre. Same rubies peering from the dark as they had long ago, but instead of a threatening presence, they were a source of comfort. You could tell those steady reds anything and everything - your fears, hopes, and whimsies… 

Every night, when the dreams came, you’d awaken alone and longing. It was an empty room, your room, where you first met Eugene, your creature in the shadows… and he was. Yours that is. 

It was then you realized that all your sleepwalking and talking hadn’t been just a fancy. They - the dreams - were as real as the harvest. As real as the blood running through your veins and of anything else you could see, inhale and stroke.

That night you'd awoken with a start, nothing but darkness to welcome you into the waking world. Even the moon was dead in its grave but out from the pitch black pane of your window, you could see twin blood-stars glaring towards you. They moved, locked parallel as if upon a head. 

You hadn't known then, but it seemed so obvious now, that it wasn't another fusty dream. 

It was him. 

The soft stuttering click, almost as weak as the purr of a feline, but somehow able to resonate deeply - too deeply - was what woke you. With the covers tangled around your waist, you padded to the window, clutching your threadbare night clothes to your stomach; sheets fluttering along the wooden floor. 

“... hello?” You'd asked, but received no reply. 

Right then, you weren't sure why you asked or why, when you got nothing but silence, you unlatched your window to the warm summer air. Inviting in a monster was the fault of every tragic character from Nan’s tales, and there you were, following suit. 

Twin red dots opened back against the black. One eye more slitted like a slash than the fat droplet of the other, angle to the side as if to question your decision. In that darkness, you felt amusement, hunger and something like mild disapproval before stumbling backward as the thing you'd invited in, came for you. It moved - no, he swayed like a dead thing with liquid instead of bones, long limbs hanging loosely at his sides. A musk of fire-ash and something moist like rainy sweat came with him. You stopped there, robust but wary, sure you'd been dreaming.

It was a careful claw that broke the gap between your dreams and the stark reality of your situation. He scraped a curl of heavy auburn off your shoulder - so careful it weakened your panic just like that. 

“Are you going to take me to the hills?” You’d asked him, thinking back to the legends of horned night men who'd come for bad little girls - those demons from the soil that'd crack your bones and slurp the moist marrow within. Though, even then, you knew Eugene wasn't one amongst their kind. 

Those two glowing blood drops waved back and forth - head shaking - but the claw on your skin curled, skimmed the line of your throat and, against your face, an exhale of hot breath brought sweat to your forehead. 

“Then…” you paused, swallowing your trepidation, feeling that claw pinch the bulb of your throat as you tasted your own fear, “... then what are you going to do to me?”

He was going to eat you, you'd thought - knew for certain - but Eugene did not feast on you in the way things like him did in the stories. He told you, with fire in his lungs, that he had to taste you - that he couldn't wait anymore… that he was sorry for being so bloody weak...

‘Patience is dead.’ He'd said. 

At the ripe old age of twenty-three, you were far beyond your prime to marry. Not knowing the touch of a man, husband or a lover, it took you by surprise the way you were roughly lifted, and deposited upon your bed. You’d been breathless by the natural strength of him… you still were now, but that night you'd never felt such a thing before. Being carried as though you weighed nothing but a child was unsettling. However, that pull of apprehension withered away as soon as two earth-cool palms laid over your knees. 

It seemed strange for something as inhuman as Eugene was, to hike up your night skirts, and garner nothing but excitement in you. No fear. No uncertainty. He was merely giving you what you’d been desiring since your bed became soley yours and your budding needs.

His presence in of itself had been something out of a child’s nightmare, and yet you went willingly to the straw mattress. Beholden to his guidance, you opened your knees and forgave him. 

Out of the dark, his voice came again, “Ambrosi’ahhh…”

And on the haunting echo of his voice, something snapped below your navel, a pressure deep within that leaked hot and wet down between your thighs as he spread you open wide. In the darkness, with nothing but narrowed rubies peering down at you, you felt weightless; empty. But Eugene fixed that. He gave you a heaviness like warm stones in your stomach, kissing away the aches you hadn't known were there. 

Hot breath, wet and cumbersome, fell down between your legs, tickling the light curls and though you did not know what to expect, you opened your thighs wider and arched as, what could be nothing else but his tongue, dipped down drenched folds to tease exquisite bliss from a body unused to such attention. Light, teasing caresses that were neither meant to grant you a quick death or to torture, lingered like a forest fire over the surface of your skin. The feeling of burning pleasure spread from the point of contact, out along your belly and thighs; curling your toes as he lifted your ankles into the air. 

Eugene feasted upon you that night. He devoured your innocence, opening your eyes to a world of feverish nights and erotic tumbles. You were granted a sweet release on the firm slither of his tongue; covering your mouth to hide your screams from you widowed mother and spinster aunt. Neither would approve even had Eugene been but a farm boy… yet so far, neither of them knew. 

After that night - like a naughty girl - you would leave you window unlatched for him, and he would come for you. 

Nearly every night you'd awaken to that unique hum of a far away storm, only to realize it was your midnight lover come to wrap you in his monstrous arms - to take you to a state of pleasure you'd only thought a husband was allowed to know. 

The first time you saw him in the flesh was by lantern light. You'd asked many times before if he would let you raise a candle to him, but he'd withdrawn, once even leaving as if ashamed of himself. The harrowing squint of his red eyes had near broken your heart. How it was possible for something, for someone, as beautiful as him to be ashamed, you’d never know. 

Even now he has a tendency to recoil when you reach to kiss him in the light. 

It's against the amber hues of your crystal lantern, in the privacy of the stables just beyond your room, that Eugene finally allowed you to gaze upon him. The braying of the horses had kept your muffled moans hidden well enough after the night previous when you'd alerted your aunt moments before Eugene was finished supping on your skin - and it had served as a comfortable place to feel his touch on the nights that followed. 

The animals were not afraid of him and… yet, when you see him for the first time, he's shocked that you are not. 

More bat than man - more inhuman than human. With your breath in your throat, you'd twisted the cog of your light, exposing further details of your vampyre. It was true, you'd realized, he was what your Nan warned you off. A tall, thinly muscled creature of the night, with one good eye and one weeping with old scars, both piercing red stare at you from black orbs; slanted and cruel. He is anything but a monster at heart, though. 

Even then, scouring his features as though there's a thirst unquenched in your chest, you knew him to be gentle on the inside. His claws never broke your flesh - never had those vicious teeth punctured your womanly folds and every word uttered to you had been dripping with honest sweetness.

Eugene, your vampyre, was a misunderstood man, monster, and lover. He'd snarled under the light, spines hunched far back enough that the raw nubs jutting from the blades of his shoulders tugged at your heartstrings. You'd stroked the broken edges of what had once been terrible wings, thumbing the scars and healed bone until the sounds of distant storms in his chest became too much and there, with his eyes half closed, you reached up and kissed him. 

It was blood you smelt on his breath, but there had been something soppily sweet on his tongue when he’d flicked the muscle against your own. You know now that it was the stale musk of your body still swimming behind his teeth, but at the time, beet sugar had come to mind, possibly brought on by the red you'd smelt on him. 

The heft of him was of a man. You knew what to expect from glimpses of the shirtless boys that'd worked the summer through to fill the stores for winter, but Eugene was longer, stronger… older and everything those boys had lacked. Bulbs of muscle had made up the strength in his arms, running with hard fibers and further down to his hands, rippling with tendon and scattered veins. His claws had curled and clicked when you’d ran your kisses down his chin. That rattle in his throat made sweet flutters against your lips, and further down he reeked of earth and something sweeter like rot, but also of manly sweat and… you were unable to help yourself. 

Of the nights previous, you'd felt the iron log he'd kept behind cloth trousers. Sometimes your knee would bump it, or you’d twist in his grip and seek the bulge with your hip or the softer felt of your rump, but never had Eugene allowed you to touch it for yourself. His tongue had been your pleasure, and your pleasure had been his, but that night - with the horses snorting and the cicadas humming in the grass outside - you'd spread your fingers along the hard edge of his pectorals and slipped the leather suspenders from his shoulders. 

“Playing with the night,” he'd said; heaving breaths with every huge expanse of his chest. More so than any other night before or after, you'd felt drunk on lust, overflowing with desire to take rather than receive. 

Eugene allowed you your taste, knowing how often you'd allowed him his. 

Under your nails, his stomach muscles flattened, allowing you more room but still writhed impatiently. Under the brass buttons of his trousers, you found an organ, unlike any animals… perhaps he was more like a man there than you'd wondered. The fact was, that then and now, you hadn't and don't care how he compares to other men. 

Eugene is glorious. 

You think back to that night in the hay with the lamp often - the first time you’d rested your lips to the tip of his manhood. How slippery and salty he had been, and how robust the sounds of his pleasure were compared to the gentle whimpers of your own. Too large to fit in your mouth, but you'd kissed the blushing length from base to sticky tip over and over again until the hardness slid smoothly inside your palms. 

You’ll never forget the way he’d buckled, tenderly taking hold of the hair on your scalp, taking you with him to the soft cushion of straw until you were lavishing the heat of his manhood with your tongue, granting it fat, beating sucks and as much love as he’d shown you. 

He'd turned his manhood away from you at that last moment, spilling strings of thick seed along the prickly hairs on his belly with heaving breaths that’d pulled at the tight flesh around his ribs. The memory of his fluid seeping around the curve of his waist to stain the hay will forever be in your mind. 

You were a slave to him, as he was to you, after that night. 

Now, you rest secretly in your room, the sun just starting to bend to the night, as your mother calls you from the kitchens. 

Your dress feels so heavy about you hips, and the corset too tight, but standing in your pinched heels is better than sitting. Eugene will find you gone when he arrives, you think, looking at your window pane with an ache in both your heart and belly. 

Sighing, you reach to the short letter on your night desk, kissing the edge softly, before leaving it peeking under the edge of your lace pillow. 

From the kitchen, your mother calls again.

“Coming Mother!” You reply, feeling daring as you smile at your bed, before gently shutting your door. Soon, when the moon is high, your love - your monster - will come for you, but hopefully, your note will be enough for him until the next evening has fallen. 

The Gala thrown tonight is last minute, but the notion that you’ll be arriving with Eugene's touch staining your ribs and thighs, hidden by your elegant layers, is enough to make you eager to listen to the bachelor's conquests like a good lady ought to. 

At the fire, your Mother raises her lashes, smiling in a genial set of fine wrinkles and finishing powder, “I've just been informed that the Langdon’s son will be at the party tonight, he's asked about you in his letters home, Mrs. Langdon said so last week.”

As a good girl should, you smile and lower your eyes, mimicking the proper mannerisms of a lady blushing. 

“... not true,” you say humbly for a compliment you care so little for.

Your Mother continues, smirking as though this information is but a small morsel of the juicy gossip she's actually heard - as though you will be pleased to find her right.

To bring color to your cheeks, you recall the way Eugene had you in his lap a few nights ago - how he let you rock your bare flesh back and forth, pinning the hard stake of his organ between yourself and his belly until you’d been spent and weak and shivering with pleasure. 

You blush, and your mother frets with joy, eager no doubt to have you wedded and bedded by Winter. It will not be so, you think, still smiling. If your Mother will sooner see you married off than become your Aunt June, then Eugene will take you away with him. You've sat with him as the mornings creep close, whispering your heart to him against his throat… and he'd promised to steal you, should someone take you from him. 

Each time he’d promise, and each time you'd smile, tug the heavy gold loops in his tattered ears and kiss his curved lower lip, relishing in the intoxicating sounds he'd make at the gesture. 

Miss Anne and her brother Adam fix the carriage, driven by a hired hand you do not recognize. Ready and stern looking despite the rouge on her cheeks, your Aunt stands in the warm air while the dipping sun halos her. Still smiling, still the proper lady, you accept Adam's hand as he helps you into the carriage, ignoring and not caring about the way he looks at you with longing. 

The ride to the Langdon Manor is bumpy but quiet. There are but a few words shared between the three of you and for good reason. Tonight, by the end of the party, your voices will be hoarse from all the gossip and pleasantries. For once, you are not dreading the evening. 

Yes, you will miss Eugene tonight, but it will only make him more ravenous come tomorrow night, and this is your first foray into 'polite' society since he’s come to you. Being amongst socialites who imagine you pure and naive, will be a sweet sort of revenge for all the years of talk behind your back. 

‘She's one of ‘those’ women…’ 

‘Perhaps she's warty under her skirts, do you think? There must be some reason she's not taken.’

‘Poor, love… must be worn to the gills by those mad ladies, not much time for men when you’re worked like a field hand.’

There's been more gossip you're unaware of, you're sure of that, but it doesn't bother you anymore. Let the Langdon heir see you as a potential wife whom he needn't make a dowry for - perhaps a woman he may cuckold as he pleases. You won't be needing a man like that… not when Eugene has been watching you for so long - not when a creature as powerful and gentle as him loves you so. 

Against the tightness of your corset, wheels on rough stone, one of the bruises Eugene left behind pinches. You share a secret smile with the carriage window, watching the sun dip down over the horizon; throwing the distant forest into black relief. Fleeting memories of tightly held moans and inhuman grunts - of writhing flesh dampened with sweat and the thick tang of salt in your mouth - makes the journey an overwhelming mixture of longing and bliss. Every bump of the carriage alights the sensitive flesh cushioned between your thighs, making your cheeks rosy enough for your Mother to assume you’d done as you’d been told and applied your rouge.

The Gala is a bustle of string quartets and chatter. The lighting is bright and dazzling like a morning sun against the eggshell wallpaper and golden trim; engraved corner edges glowing. Each piece of German architecture glistening against the candles and sconces. Rich canary drapery brings color to the expansive ballroom while the layered glass chandeliers, leading down the vaulted ceiling, shimmer like fish scales in midday. It is all quite beautiful. 

In another life, as another woman, you may have been enthralled by the idea of marrying a man that'd one day own a home like this, but you dream of nothing but hanging suspenders and clawed hands - of a long wet tongue and hissed pillow talk in your ear. No one can give you what Eugene gives you… every night… and for all the nights to come, you realize, smiling.

“I'm not sure you remember me, M’lady,” it is halfway into a memory of being licked from head to toe in the dark, claws skimming the wet trails he’d left behind, that a voice of silk speaks up beside you, “My name is Joseph Langdon. I served with your brother-in-law overseas.”

He ends his greeting by question, to which you set down your glass of cider and smile in return, “I do, yes.” 

It is expected for you to play the kind and receptive lady in waiting, so your eyes pierce Joseph’s own, lingering as though you enjoy the boyish charm of his face. In a delicate voice, you remind him, “We used to play cards with the Sisters from St. Marigold’s Nunery. Back then you were a louse at new market.”

“Indeed, we did,” he replies, eyes keen on your face, but it does not escape your notice that when you shift to feign a glance at the dance floor, his gaze falling to your lifted bosom. 

“... and indeed I was,” the softened appetite in his voice is unflattering.

He is a man, and you do not fault him, not surely, but it seems the one glance he stole makes him weak, for his sneaky looks become embarrassingly obvious as your ‘polite’ conversation continues. While the evening progresses and you seek privacy away from the bachelor, he follows at a distance. Others look at you, noting the man trailing your skirts with approval. It is disgusting that they encourage such behavior in an otherwise ‘civilized’ man.

At the glass doors, exposing the gardens with their ivory saints and night flowers, you wonder over the differences between Joseph's failed courtship and Eugene's bedroom antics. Would you be more enamored by Joseph's well-kempt beard and Romanesque nose had you met him again before your night love came to you? - or would you be as bored by him as you were all the others? Perhaps, you think, watching the moon hold heavy above a macrame of clouds, it would not matter the timing. That night - that first night - where Eugene came for you, laying you down on your bed to sup from the fault between your thighs, there had been no need for flowery words. 

‘So, sweet… how I’ve hungered for you…’

No, Eugene is a creature of few words and of those words they are debased and beautiful at once. He is honest, unlike the boy-man that decides once again to approach you. This time he comes with a filled glass of strong cider; eyes still skimming the tops of your breasts.

You don't appreciate his friendliness after so many years apart, though… it is something you expect from a man so soon back from war, but it still unnerves you. Joseph is not an evil man, but he is just that - a man and no man can compare to your shadow lover. 

Your vampyre…

As Joseph busies himself with the dip of soft flesh on display, you return to your thoughts as the moonlight bathes the trickling fountain and it’s expertly masoned platform. It will be now, or earlier that Eugene will have eased your window open, crawling easy yet heavy through the frame to click his taloned feet over your scratched wood floor. 

Besides you, your unwanted friend carries on a loud conversation. 

Thankfully, a response to his talk is not required, and you return to your bedroom, with your vampyre lover as he sniffs your barren sheets, heart, and manhood aching for you. He’d read your letter, better than a learned man ever could and maybe… perhaps, he’d crawl under your bed and wait for you as long as he could. 

Perhaps, when you…

Out the corner of your eye, you catch one of the statues shift - not a shadow… 

A tall, black silhouette slides across the mostly pitch reach between two tall hedges of honeysuckles. You only see the phantom because you’ve grown used to pinpointing forms in the darkness. 

Around the throat of a moon-white praying nun, you watch a dark hand reach around, spiked with dangerous claws, just as two red stars open from behind the edge of ivory. 

Eugene! 

You inhale, frozen and stiff and fluttering behind your corset. His eyes - like distanced harvest moons - widen and narrow, glaring at you or your companion… or both. You motion as if to run to him, but pause, merely swaying on your heels. At your side, Joseph chuckles, lost in some bit of humor you care not for even if you’d bothered to listen. He’s here… your night man - your monster. 

The claws he has draped over the frozen Sister’s throat, tap thoughtfully. He is like a shadow, obscuring the statue of purity with his inhuman touch. The meaning is not lost on you, but it is longing you feel as his other hand cuts through the bone, caressing the nun from waist to breast.

It is subtle, but you see the way those pinpricks of red dart up to the second floor, balcony, where it is barely seen for the ivy that grows up the railing. As far as secret meeting places go, it is not the worst he could find. With a tender smile, you tip your chin in understanding.

As if he’d never been there, but in your mind, the statue is left abandoned; unmarred by the black claws that had once embraced it.

Joseph does not seem bothered by your sudden voice, even after spending so much time talking to himself, eyes barely straying from your heaving breasts. After mentioning your fear of a dizzy spell - accepted amongst the social standing where the corsets are ill-fitting and the drinks strong - you lose your stalker through the foray of party goers.

The Manor is a maze, but inside your chest, there is a hum, soft at first and then stronger at certain turns. Eventually, you realize it is a beacon and like a ship at sea, you wade through currents of arsenic green walls and exotic throws. A bedroom rattles with Eugene’s gentle fluctuations, and sparing the dim hallway a quick look, you open the door and latch it behind you. The room inside is a mess of black shadow, but the open balcony door allows a hint of blue-tinged light, and it is there on the moon-coated floor, that a shadow grows in standing. 

Eugene stands in the archway, a carved figure from a slab of soft light. 

His red eyes cut.

“Eugene,” you whisper, making sure to secure the lock on the door before going to him. 

Eugene growls, releasing a cloud of iron-rich breath. His hands reach up to skim your bare shoulders, curling claws in the frills about your upper arms and further down to the delicate bones in your wrist.

“Shall I kill him?” He asks, dangerously.

You smile, touched and amused at the lowered edge to his gaze, realizing that he looks at your lips and back to your eyes but not the swell of your breasts, though you know he’s taken his peek and appreciates them. It is one of the reasons you love him, the way he watches you and not just parts of you.

“If you want to cause a stir, you could,” you reply, tipping your head back as he slips a large, long-fingered hand around the small of your back. He rumbles with amusement.

“A mob, more like,” he says, showing his teeth on every word - little slices of silver edged in light. You can see his fat tongue glistening behind them. 

“Are you upset by my leaving?”

Eugene just grins and shakes his head, rings dragging his tattered ears despite their alert rigidity. At times he reminds you of pictured Buccaneers, plundering the seas for treasure but it is you he treasures and you he plunders. 

“Hardly. I’ve feasted on aristocratic stock… but,” he pauses, leaking a resounding groan into the static, summer air, “hunger haunts me still.”

You worry for him - that perhaps one day he’ll be too absorbed in his eating to listen for the sounds of an encroaching hunter, but then you realize he’s skilled at his craft. Quick and artful, even. No one will find the poor soul whose life Eugene swallowed down, at least not until the soil has weathered away their shallow grave… but by then they will be but bones. It is still much less innocent of him than taking his sustenance from cattle and rabid wolves, though you would be lying if you said the thrill did not dampen your under garments.

You’ve no real love for the wealthy, despite not being far removed from the blue blood yourself. 

With a coy smile, curling your fingers around the leather of his suspenders, you tell him hotly, “I know where you might satiate yourself, Eugene… my love.”

His muscular chest, so lean and firm, rumbles against your knuckles. The idea sits well with him, and it is no doubt that it was his intention to find you here and do unspeakable things to your flesh, just as it is not up for question that he would find you willing. After the night before, where he’d split your insides with his tongue, you had been thinking of him in a new light. Just that morning, you’d teased your still tender folds with your fingers, easing your wetness to flow enough that a delicate finger had gone in effortlessly. 

You hadn’t dared to add another, worried you’d hurt yourself, but perhaps tonight, in Mrs. Langdon’s guest room, he will do it again.

Kissing over the slow beat of his heart, you ask him quietly, “Will you venture inside me again?”

Against your lips, his chest expands, exhaling hot breath down your braided locks. 

“Yesss…” he hisses, digging claws into the delicate silk covering your corset laces, fraying the threads in a manner that sends a hard twang up your spine. He plays you better than the musicians downstairs do their string instruments. Eugene plucks your veins hard, and before the jolt can dampen, you giggle, breathless and tug him to the ornate bed for more. He follows as though hypnotized and lifts you into the divot of his narrow hips, legs opening for him, with the cup of one palm. Heat blossoms over your rump, spreading between your thighs and upwards underneath your navel. 

“Oh, Eugene,” you moan like a maid in one of those French novellas; succumbing to the wanton attentions of a dark, strapping master. 

His breath pants, hissing through teeth like the wind between the trees, and motions to kiss you. His kisses are always messy and hot - with a mouth so unlike your own - but you wouldn't have them any other way. The rough, frenzied slide and lick of his tongue alights your flesh with a passion. 

"Playing the naughty one tonight," Eugene rumbles; wet on your chin.

Yes, you nod and whimper, stroking the tendons standing out along his throat and around to the bristles on his shoulders.

His claws drag, clutch and lift your skirts as he braces on his elbow above you, hunching down to kiss you once more. The twin rings in his ears click, and your teeth scrape, and with the edge of one finger-blade, Eugene cuts through your sodden under garment. 

You break the wet embrace, twisting your hips to help him tear the fabric down your thighs, exposing your wet cunt to the body heated air between you both. 

It makes you blush, thinking about your flesh in such a crude way, but the way Eugene whispers his lust, how ‘sweet smelling’ your ‘cunt’ is, turns the word into a compliment rather than an insult. His tongue flicks your chin, edging your moist lips and once more you are swallowed by his mouth; working slick and greedily against your own. 

His claws rake through damp curls - a promise - just before your lips part, and he twists you over on your stomach. The corset pulls at your ribs; suffocating in conjunction with your heaving breaths. 

“No screams in this,” he rattles, sounding smoke-choked and feral, "... hmmm, let alone how you draw breath."

You hold your breath as his touch skims your bare neck, light pain disappearing over the spine on your trappings. He cuts through your laces as though they've insulted him, rending the silk and heavy cotton shift beneath. Sounds of ripping threads turn your heart upside down and suddenly you can breathe easy. There will be no returning to the Gala after this, you think thankfully.

With a whimper, you raise your hips, pressing your soft bottom against him, finding, with a light squirm, his… his cock. You blush, muttering the word to the embroidered duvet and get a dark sound of appreciation in return. 

Downstairs, you can hear the rise of music as something shatters, perhaps the cooks in the kitchen… or drunken aristocrats who know nothing of the seedy things going on above their heads. The thought of Joseph standing around the ballroom, waiting for your return as Eugene - right out of the man’s own childhood nightmares - brings you the little death, forces a gentle leak from your insides. 

There’s a puff of breath on your neck, and then the clink of glass, like a bottle as Eugene slips something from his pocket. You turn at the waist thanks to your ruined corset hanging loose under your stomach, and watch uneven red eyes look to a tiny brown bottle in his hand. 

“What do you have there?” You ask, curiosity growing as he digs his knees into the bed around your hips, leaning back on his haunches to unscrew the dropper cap. 

“Oils.”

“... oils?” You repeat in question. 

“You want me inside,” he reminds you, profuse tongue licking the corner of his mouth with gaping inhales - it's as though he's tasting the air, you think, growing more heated as he dribbles droplets of smooth oil down the bare crevasse of your rump. It's cool, and there's no helping the slight jump and moan you give him. More drops slip down your damp folds, staining the duvet below, but he applies more and then, startling you into a stutter, reaches a long limb - webbed flesh stretching under his arm - and plucks a dead candle off the bedside table. 

As Eugene oils the curved base of the candle, you shudder at his tone when he tells you, “... you're small, so we start small." 

Seeing your spine tense, he trills in that soothing way he has a habit of and adds, "... just relax.”

You try - you do, truly, but it stings when he pulls your soft cheek to the side, exposing your slippery, raw flesh. Your cunt, you remind yourself as he nudges your opening with the slick candle and edges the solid wax inside. 

Eugene clicks his tongue, trembling with pleasure as you cry out, shoving your face into the duvet to muffle your sounds. With a heavy breath, you gasp his name, fist the bedspread and allow him to press more of the girthy candle within you. 

While this is not what you meant by wanting him inside once more, neither are you unhappy with the turn of events. The full drag of oiled wax being thrust back and forth is a thicker sensation from the curl of your finger… or even the reach of his tongue. It makes you wonder how long it will take for him to fit his cock inside you as he does the wax… or how it will feel when already your body is beside itself.

The candle does not mold against your inner muscles, not like his tongue had, but it reaches deep and…

“... oh!” You gasp, and then again and louder the third time until each forward motion pulls a shrill moan from your throat, tightening a knot deep within. 

Behind you, Eugene snarls, claws dimpling the meat of your rump; holding you steady. It reminds you of the way animals breed… the male mounting his female, but this is - well… it makes your lips curl and your insides clench just imagining the picture you must paint.

Bent over, face flushed and panting in the downy fabric, fingers white as snow in their bloodless grip and your imposing monster man from the grim night-tales thrusting the end of an oiled candle as he would his own cock into you. 

It's good - it feels so delicious and fragile that you can’t bother yourself to look backward at him. Instead, you picture Eugene’s face in your mind's eye - his upturned nostrils flaring, hair-lipped mouth parted in a mess of sharp teeth and… and those eyes - one less keen than the other. You can see them, like two red dots of firelight at a great distance, watching you, staring at the exposed flesh raised upwards for him. 

The precise rhythm is so unlike the soft, firm motions of his tongue on your tender button. 

You feel hot; wet inside and out, like a cup being overfilled and just before the brim is reached, the candle pauses. 

The stiff wax slips from your folds, leaving you so very empty but Eugene has mercy for you and only you, for he heaves hot breath along the slopes of your twin cheeks, says your name in a baritone growl, and slips that long reaching tongue inside you once again. It massages, deep but not as much as before. The strong, wet muscle swells and thins, tickling reaches untouched by anyone but him…

… and that blasted candle, of course.

Pleasure floods past the brim in your belly, and with red burning in your cheeks, you die happy and leaking; eyes watering. Fluid trickles around the cork of his tongue, running down your inner thighs in two skinny trails. It’s shameful - a feeling you’ve not felt with him yet, but the sensation is not so different from making water... yet you aren't. 

The pleasure is deep and sloppy, and with grunts of approval, Eugene slurps at your folds, tongue flopping from within to cleanse your curls and further down your thighs. 

“... no,” you whimper, jerking in his hold as another little leak of mess slides forth, but he just clicks his tongue, nose in the crease of your rump and tongues you of any remaining liquid pearls.

For a moment too long you absorb your embarrassment until tears of mortification edge your lashes. You jolt, flinching at his tongue teasing your swollen button of nerves. Different pleasure, but familiar, soothes some of your ill feelings, but it is only when Eugene urges you over on your back that you can stop feeling wrong about what he’d made you feel. For some reason, you feel conflicted, worried but over what? - you’re not sure. Then again, it doesn’t matter, because as soon as Eugene begins to nuzzle the loose fabric at your stomach, heedless and pleased with himself, you deflate.

It is not like the little deaths he’s given you before. This one feels muddy; complicated.

“You don’t like?” he asks, voice strangled with concern and lust alike. It sounds like a trick question - one he might already know the answer too.

The way his eyes blink against the darkness abolishes any lingering displeasure, though. With a thick swallow, knuckles skimming the unshed tears from your eyes, you smile, “Just different. The duvet is wet, Eugene… I had not meant-”

“But you did,” he interrupts you - dark tone belying the narrow slits of red aimed down at you - and leans in, snorting hot breath against your face, “... and you shouldn't feel shame. Every bit of you is delicious... we could do this every night, for all the nights to come.”

In the darkness, with your well-worked flesh pounding gently, you sigh and tug at the hard edges on his face. The muscles in his jaw twitch, and tense as you pull him in for a kiss. Musk coats his tongue, bitter yet sweet and undeniably you. So lost in his plush mouth and tasting tongue, you barely startle when he lifts your calves in his palms, skimming up under your bare knees. 

His tongue dances around your own, leaving you dizzy off the married flavor of you and him. Against your sluggish lips, Eugene growls, "Let me give you something mmmm'more familiar."

You rest your palms in the red tangles from your ruined braid, watching with hooded eyes as Eugene arches his back, pulling your knees into one large hand. His claws tap at the buttons on his trousers, undoing each one until you gasp at the hot slap of his rigid organ against the back of your thigh. 

The candle had nearly been too much, you think, gaze wide as he spares a moment to open your legs. The oil glistens on your skin, picking up the soft shine from the moon can’t be enough to guide him in but Eugene does not penetrate you with the bulbous head of his manhood - his cock. The heavy slab of him rests over your mons, delving through your curls and further through until his cock rests fat on your belly. 

Eugene locks your knees together again and lays your legs straight along his chest, your stocking-clad toes just barely brushing his chin and from there, trapped between your legs, he pulls his cock through the oiled up skin and back through, thrusting between the fixed pressure made of your inner thighs. The angle rubs your nerve, dragging and tugging with each thrust to and fro.

You’ve heard talk in the kitchens before, of how some men fuck women instead of making love to them. This, you think with heavy breaths, must be some combination of the two, for Eugene is not slow and methodical as he is when feasting upon you… but he is careful.

Free under your corset, your breasts bounce back and forth, rocking on your ribs as you arch your back, pressing your head into the soft bedspread. 

Above you, Eugene pants, watching the way one of your nipples tumbles out from the low neckline on your shift. The fresh air caresses the bud like a kiss… and soon his tongue is stretching down to tease it. He emits a throaty growl; humping between your clasped legs as pleasure swims up your thighs and down your navel. 

This, you think in a drunken gaze, this is the fulfillment you are used to - the sweetness Eugene gives you nightly and the kind you can enjoy without concern for any stains left on a stranger's bed. 

Below the floor, the Gala sounds begin to fade - the party coming to an end. 

“Please,” you sigh, stretching your limbs over head, reaching for the pillows to tug and squeeze as Eugene's cock slips through and along, itching heavy bliss with each thrust. 

“Please,” you breathe again, “... they’ll be looking for me… faster, please.”

“They’ll not find you here,” he growls, pinching your legs tighter together, holding them unyielding to his tense stomach and does as you plead. His hips smack the backs of your thighs, rubbing through the soft, snug contour of your inner thighs and suddenly - with the barest angle of his thrusts - the pressure mounts on your button and there…

“Oh… oh, my love,” you beg, pinching your lashes tight as that most welcome of deaths floats to your head. In your passion, you let slip the foul term you'd heard at the party this evening.

“Fuck me,” you whimper.

He snarls, jostling your smaller body as his cock pounds; shoving through with a pop and squeeze, as viciousness as you imagine he is when in the black pitch of the night, slaughtering a meal. By the time he finds his completion, the ballroom downstairs is quiet, allowing you to hear the full orchestra of Eugene’s wailing growls.

Like grinding steel and something wild; like the flying mammals, he reminds you so much of. Your creature of the night…

Hot seed stains the hem of your crumpled dress, pooling just under your ribs where it flows thick into your navel, brimming over your sides. Warming you from the outside in, you let loose a breath and whisper to him his name once more, and then again as a final twitch empties him. 

In the morning dawn, you will carry the badges from his passion, tiny raised marks from his claws where he’d been too lost to pull them from you - bruises perhaps, but most certainly aches in your legs and insides too. Every twinge of discomfort, you will relish as you go about your day. All the while you’ll think of him, waiting for him again once the sun has slept and the moon is high.

There’s no way to return to the Gala in the state he’s left you in. The rumors would fly like doves in the midst of war, so it is no hard decision to let him cradle you in his arm, holding you as a man may carry his wife, or a mother her child and steals you away into the darkness.

The wind is cool on your bare skin, and the moon paints the easy creases under his eyes. 

The Langdon Manor becomes but a soft beacon of light between the pines and then it’s nothing but an old memory as the familiar smells of town touch your nostrils. 

Eugene keeps to the forest, slipping along invisible pathways, just wide enough that your torn silks never snag; loose curls never catching in the reaching branches. Against his throat, you plant soft kisses, savoring every hitch of breath and soft snarl. You think, just before the windmill peaks against the low hanging moon, that he might stop to press you back into the grassy meadow, but he refrains. 

It’s too close to dawn for anymore but a few shared kisses and his warm nuzzles before you are laid down in bed, safe and sound. At your bedside, he kneels, watching you with burning coals and a heavy brow. The gaunt lines of his face do not speak of happiness, but the downward tilt of his lips are curled at the edges and those pleasurable lines are carved between his eyes. You know him well enough to smile and know he’s happy too.

“For you,” he says, pulling a chain of gold from his back pocket, heavy with a single glimmering ruby locked in droplets of more gold. It is beautiful but…

“You took this from the one you-”

“No,” he reassures you, laying the brilliant necklace over the bundle of ruined threads covering your bosom, “... older than you and them,” there’s a glimmer of memory in his gaze as he adds, “Older than me.”

“My Mother… she’ll already be furious with me. What would she think if I-” you stop, realizing that it does not matter what she thinks. The state of your dress - the stains Eugene left behind - and everything else will tell her more than she’ll care to know. A ruined woman, you think with a bright smile, lifting up to lay a quick kiss to Eugene’s pronounced chin, clutching the gift to your throat.

“I will cherish it forever,” you promise him, taking his kiss with a burning love that swallows you whole.

“Tomorrow night,” he promises back, unable to stay to help you with the aftermath of the evening. He’s forgiven, though he’s not had to ask for it. 

You watch from your open window as he slips out into the night - a black form crawling through the brambles and like a shadow, he slithers across the open meadow until you can’t tell if he’s gone or lingering. You feel his eyes on you as you close your window, and can’t stop from grinning as you fasten the necklace around your throat.

The smile on your lips never abates that night, not even when morning comes and your Mother finds you perched on the edge of your bed, dressed in your night clothes with the torn dress crumpled beside you. 

No one can take him away from you now. You are his, and he is most certainly yours.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! And thank you, Anon for the inspiration and another thanks to DarthFucamus for looking this over for any weirdness. If you have the time, I'd love to hear what you thought. It's not often I get to write something without a prebuilt world and it'd be fun and helpful to hear what worked and what didn't. <3
> 
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